Why so pale and wan, fond lover?Prithee, why so pale?Will, when looking well can't move her,Looking ill prevail?Prithee, why so pale?Why so dull and mute, young sinner?Prithee, why so mute?Will, when speaking well can't win her,Saying nothing do 't?Prithee, why so mute?Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move,This cannot take her;If of herself she will not love,Nothing can make her.The devil take her!
Why so pale and wan, fond lover?Prithee, why so pale?Will, when looking well can't move her,Looking ill prevail?Prithee, why so pale?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner?Prithee, why so mute?Will, when speaking well can't win her,Saying nothing do 't?Prithee, why so mute?
Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move,This cannot take her;If of herself she will not love,Nothing can make her.The devil take her!
Go, lovely Rose!Tell her, that wastes her time and me,That now she knows,When I resemble her to theeHow sweet and fair she seems to be.Tell her that's young,And shuns to have her graces spied,That hadst thou sprungIn deserts, where no men abide,Thou must have uncommended died.Small is the worthOf beauty from the light retired:Bid her come forth,Suffer herself to be desired,And not blush so to be admired.Then die! that sheThe common fate of all things rareMay read in thee:How small a part of time they shareThat are so wondrous sweet and fair!
Go, lovely Rose!Tell her, that wastes her time and me,That now she knows,When I resemble her to theeHow sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that's young,And shuns to have her graces spied,That hadst thou sprungIn deserts, where no men abide,Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worthOf beauty from the light retired:Bid her come forth,Suffer herself to be desired,And not blush so to be admired.
Then die! that sheThe common fate of all things rareMay read in thee:How small a part of time they shareThat are so wondrous sweet and fair!
It was the frog in the well,Humble dum, humble dum,And the merry mouse in the mill,Tweedle, tweedle, twino.The frog would a-wooing ride,Humble dum, humble dum,Sword and buckler by his side,Tweedle, tweedle, twino.When upon his high horse set,Humble dum, humble dum,His boots they shone as black as jet,Tweedle, tweedle, twino.When he came to the merry mill pin,Lady Mouse beene you within?Then came out the dusty mouse,I am lady of this house;Hast thou any mind of me?I have e'en great mind of thee.Who shall this marriage make?Our lord, which is the rat.What shall we have to our supper?Three beans in a pound of butter.But, when supper they were at,The frog, the mouse, and e'en the rat,Then came in Tib, our cat,And caught the mouse e'en by the back,Then did they separate:The frog leapt on the floor so flat;Then came in Dick, our drake,And drew the frog e'en to the lake,The rat he ran up the wall,And so the company parted all.
It was the frog in the well,Humble dum, humble dum,And the merry mouse in the mill,Tweedle, tweedle, twino.
The frog would a-wooing ride,Humble dum, humble dum,Sword and buckler by his side,Tweedle, tweedle, twino.
When upon his high horse set,Humble dum, humble dum,His boots they shone as black as jet,Tweedle, tweedle, twino.
When he came to the merry mill pin,Lady Mouse beene you within?Then came out the dusty mouse,I am lady of this house;
Hast thou any mind of me?I have e'en great mind of thee.Who shall this marriage make?Our lord, which is the rat.
What shall we have to our supper?Three beans in a pound of butter.But, when supper they were at,The frog, the mouse, and e'en the rat,
Then came in Tib, our cat,And caught the mouse e'en by the back,Then did they separate:The frog leapt on the floor so flat;
Then came in Dick, our drake,And drew the frog e'en to the lake,The rat he ran up the wall,And so the company parted all.
When love with unconfinèd wingsHovers within my gates,And my divine Althea bringsTo whisper at my grates;When I lie tangled in her hair,And fetter'd to her eye,The birds that wanton in the airKnow no such liberty.When flowing cups run swiftly round,With no allaying Thames,Our careless heads with roses bound,Our hearts with loyal flames;When thirsty grief in wine we steep,When healths and draughts are free,—Fishes that tipple in the deepKnow no such liberty.When linnet-like confinèd, IWith shriller throat shall singThe sweetness, mercy, majesty,And glories of my king:When I shall voice aloud how goodHe is, how great should be,—Enlargèd winds that curl the floodKnow no such liberty.Stone walls do not a prison make,Nor iron bars a cage;Minds innocent and quiet takeThat for a hermitage:If I have freedom in my love,And in my soul am free,—Angels alone that soar aboveEnjoy such liberty.
When love with unconfinèd wingsHovers within my gates,And my divine Althea bringsTo whisper at my grates;When I lie tangled in her hair,And fetter'd to her eye,The birds that wanton in the airKnow no such liberty.
When flowing cups run swiftly round,With no allaying Thames,Our careless heads with roses bound,Our hearts with loyal flames;When thirsty grief in wine we steep,When healths and draughts are free,—Fishes that tipple in the deepKnow no such liberty.
When linnet-like confinèd, IWith shriller throat shall singThe sweetness, mercy, majesty,And glories of my king:When I shall voice aloud how goodHe is, how great should be,—Enlargèd winds that curl the floodKnow no such liberty.
Stone walls do not a prison make,Nor iron bars a cage;Minds innocent and quiet takeThat for a hermitage:If I have freedom in my love,And in my soul am free,—Angels alone that soar aboveEnjoy such liberty.
Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,—That from the nunneryOf thy chaste breast and quiet mindTo war and arms I fly.True, a new mistress now I chase,The first foe in the field;And with a stronger faith embraceA sword, a horse, a shield.Yet this inconstancy is suchAs you, too, shall adore;I could not love thee, dear, so much,Loved I not honour more.
Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,—That from the nunneryOf thy chaste breast and quiet mindTo war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,The first foe in the field;And with a stronger faith embraceA sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is suchAs you, too, shall adore;I could not love thee, dear, so much,Loved I not honour more.
Ye gentlemen of EnglandThat live at home at ease,Ah! little do ye think uponThe dangers of the seas.Give ear unto the mariners,And they will plainly showAll the cares and the fearsWhen the stormy winds do blow.When the stormy winds do blow.If enemies oppose usWhen England is at warWith any foreign nation,We fear not wound or scar;Our roaring guns shall teach 'emOur valour for to know,Whilst they reel on the keel,And the stormy winds do blow.And the stormy winds do blow.Then courage, all brave mariners,And never be dismay'd;While we have bold adventurers,We ne'er shall want a trade:Our merchants will employ usTo fetch them wealth, we know;Then be bold—work for gold,When the stormy winds do blow.When the stormy winds do blow.
Ye gentlemen of EnglandThat live at home at ease,Ah! little do ye think uponThe dangers of the seas.Give ear unto the mariners,And they will plainly showAll the cares and the fearsWhen the stormy winds do blow.When the stormy winds do blow.
If enemies oppose usWhen England is at warWith any foreign nation,We fear not wound or scar;Our roaring guns shall teach 'emOur valour for to know,Whilst they reel on the keel,And the stormy winds do blow.And the stormy winds do blow.
Then courage, all brave mariners,And never be dismay'd;While we have bold adventurers,We ne'er shall want a trade:Our merchants will employ usTo fetch them wealth, we know;Then be bold—work for gold,When the stormy winds do blow.When the stormy winds do blow.
Come follow, follow me,You, fairy elves that be:Which circle on the greene,Come follow Mab your queene.Hand in hand let's dance around,For this place is fairye ground.When mortals are at rest,And snoring in their nest;Unheard, and unespy'd,Through key-holes we do glide;Over tables, stools, and shelves,We trip it with our fairy elves.And, if the house be foulWith platter, dish, or bowl,Upstairs we nimbly creep,And find the sluts asleep;There we pinch their armes and thighes;None escapes, nor none espies.But if the house be swept,And from uncleanness kept,We praise the household maid,And duely she is paid:For we use before we goeTo drop a tester in her shoe.Upon a mushroome's headOur table-cloth we spread;A grain of rye, or wheat,Is manchet, which we eat;Pearly drops of dew we drinkIn acorn cups fill'd to the brink.The brains of nightingales,With unctuous fat of snailes,Between two cockles stew'd,Is meat that's easily chew'd;Tailes of wormes, and marrow of mice,Do make a dish that's wondrous nice.The grasshopper, gnat, and fly,Serve for our minstrelsie;Grace said, we dance a while,And so the time beguile:And if the moon doth hide her head,The gloe-worm lights us home to bed.On tops of dewie grasseSo nimbly do we passe;The young and tender stalkNe'er bends when we do walk:Yet in the morning may be seen
Come follow, follow me,You, fairy elves that be:Which circle on the greene,Come follow Mab your queene.Hand in hand let's dance around,For this place is fairye ground.
When mortals are at rest,And snoring in their nest;Unheard, and unespy'd,Through key-holes we do glide;Over tables, stools, and shelves,We trip it with our fairy elves.
And, if the house be foulWith platter, dish, or bowl,Upstairs we nimbly creep,And find the sluts asleep;There we pinch their armes and thighes;None escapes, nor none espies.
But if the house be swept,And from uncleanness kept,We praise the household maid,And duely she is paid:For we use before we goeTo drop a tester in her shoe.
Upon a mushroome's headOur table-cloth we spread;A grain of rye, or wheat,Is manchet, which we eat;Pearly drops of dew we drinkIn acorn cups fill'd to the brink.
The brains of nightingales,With unctuous fat of snailes,Between two cockles stew'd,Is meat that's easily chew'd;Tailes of wormes, and marrow of mice,Do make a dish that's wondrous nice.
The grasshopper, gnat, and fly,Serve for our minstrelsie;Grace said, we dance a while,And so the time beguile:And if the moon doth hide her head,The gloe-worm lights us home to bed.
On tops of dewie grasseSo nimbly do we passe;The young and tender stalkNe'er bends when we do walk:Yet in the morning may be seen
Oh, the sweet contentmentThe countryman doth find,High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee;That quiet contemplationPossesseth all my mind:Then care away, and wend along with me.For courts are full of flattery,As hath too oft been tried,High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee;The city full of wantonness,And both are full of pride;Then care away, and wend along with me.But, oh! the honest countrymanSpeaks truly from his heart,High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee;His pride is in his tillage,His horses and his cart:Then care away, and wend along with me.Our clothing is good sheep-skins,Grey russet for our wives,High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee;'Tis warmth and not gay clothingThat doth prolong our lives:Then care away, and wend along with me.The ploughman, though he labour hard,Yet on the holy day,High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee;No emperor so merrilyDoes pass his time away:Then care away, and wend along with me.To recompense our tillageThe heavens afford us showers,High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, leeAnd for our sweet refreshmentsThe earth affords us bowers;Then care away, and wend along with me.The cuckoo and the nightingaleFull merrily do sing,High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee;And with their pleasant roundelaysBid welcome to the spring:Then care away, and wend along with me.This is not half the happinessThe countryman enjoys,High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee;Though others think they have as much,Yet he that says so lies:Then care away, and wend along with me.
Oh, the sweet contentmentThe countryman doth find,High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee;That quiet contemplationPossesseth all my mind:Then care away, and wend along with me.
For courts are full of flattery,As hath too oft been tried,High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee;The city full of wantonness,And both are full of pride;Then care away, and wend along with me.
But, oh! the honest countrymanSpeaks truly from his heart,High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee;His pride is in his tillage,His horses and his cart:Then care away, and wend along with me.
Our clothing is good sheep-skins,Grey russet for our wives,High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee;'Tis warmth and not gay clothingThat doth prolong our lives:Then care away, and wend along with me.
The ploughman, though he labour hard,Yet on the holy day,High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee;No emperor so merrilyDoes pass his time away:Then care away, and wend along with me.
To recompense our tillageThe heavens afford us showers,High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, leeAnd for our sweet refreshmentsThe earth affords us bowers;Then care away, and wend along with me.
The cuckoo and the nightingaleFull merrily do sing,High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee;And with their pleasant roundelaysBid welcome to the spring:Then care away, and wend along with me.
This is not half the happinessThe countryman enjoys,High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee;Though others think they have as much,Yet he that says so lies:Then care away, and wend along with me.
Here's a health unto His Majesty,With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!Confusion to his enemies,With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!And he that will not drink his health,I wish him neither wit nor wealth,Nor yet a rope to hang himself,With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!
Here's a health unto His Majesty,With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!Confusion to his enemies,With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!And he that will not drink his health,I wish him neither wit nor wealth,Nor yet a rope to hang himself,With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!
All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,The streamers waving in the wind,When black-eyed Susan came on board,'Oh, where shall I my true-love find?Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true,Does my sweet William sail among your crew?'William, who high upon the yardRock'd by the billows to and fro,Soon as the well-known voice he heard,He sigh'd and cast his eyes below;The cord flies swiftly through his glowing hands,And quick as lightning on the deck he stands.'O Susan, Susan, lovely dear,My vows shall always true remain,Let me kiss off that falling tear,—We only part to meet again;Change as ye list, ye winds, my heart shall beThe faithful compass that still points to thee.'Believe not what the landsmen say,Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind;They tell thee sailors, when away,In every port a mistress find;Yes, yes, believe them when they tell you so,For thou art present wheresoe'er I go.'The boatswain gave the dreadful word,The sails their swelling bosom spread;No longer she must stay on board,—They kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head:Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land,'Adieu!' she cried, and wav'd her lily hand.
All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,The streamers waving in the wind,When black-eyed Susan came on board,'Oh, where shall I my true-love find?Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true,Does my sweet William sail among your crew?'
William, who high upon the yardRock'd by the billows to and fro,Soon as the well-known voice he heard,He sigh'd and cast his eyes below;The cord flies swiftly through his glowing hands,And quick as lightning on the deck he stands.
'O Susan, Susan, lovely dear,My vows shall always true remain,Let me kiss off that falling tear,—We only part to meet again;Change as ye list, ye winds, my heart shall beThe faithful compass that still points to thee.
'Believe not what the landsmen say,Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind;They tell thee sailors, when away,In every port a mistress find;Yes, yes, believe them when they tell you so,For thou art present wheresoe'er I go.'
The boatswain gave the dreadful word,The sails their swelling bosom spread;No longer she must stay on board,—They kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head:Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land,'Adieu!' she cried, and wav'd her lily hand.
Maxwellton braes are bonnie,Where early fa's the dew,And 'twas there that Annie LaurieGied me her promise true;Gied me her promise true,Which ne'er forgot shall be,And for bonnie Annie Laurie,I'd lay me doon and dee.Her brow is like the snaw-flake,Her neck is like the swan,Her face it is the fairestThat e'er the sun shone on;That e'er the sun shone on,And dark blue is her e'e;And for bonnie Annie LaurieI'd lay me doon and dee.Like dew on the gowan lying,Is the fa' of her fairy feet;And like winds in summer sighing,Her voice is low and sweet;Her voice is low and sweet,And she's a' the world to me;And for bonnie Annie LaurieI'd lay me doon and dee.
Maxwellton braes are bonnie,Where early fa's the dew,And 'twas there that Annie LaurieGied me her promise true;Gied me her promise true,Which ne'er forgot shall be,And for bonnie Annie Laurie,I'd lay me doon and dee.
Her brow is like the snaw-flake,Her neck is like the swan,Her face it is the fairestThat e'er the sun shone on;That e'er the sun shone on,And dark blue is her e'e;And for bonnie Annie LaurieI'd lay me doon and dee.
Like dew on the gowan lying,Is the fa' of her fairy feet;And like winds in summer sighing,Her voice is low and sweet;Her voice is low and sweet,And she's a' the world to me;And for bonnie Annie LaurieI'd lay me doon and dee.
When Britain first at Heaven's commandArose from out the azure main,This was the charter of her land,And guardian angels sang the strain:Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!Britons never shall be slaves!The nations not so blest as theeMust in their turn to tyrants fall,Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free—The dread and envy of them all!Still more majestic shalt thou rise,More dreadful from each foreign stroke;As the last blast which tears the skiesServes but to root thy native oak.Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;All their attempts to bend thee downWill but arouse thy generous flame,And work their woe and thy renown.To thee belongs the rural reign;Thy cities shall with commerce shine;All thine shall be the subject main,And every shore it circles thineThe Muses, still with Freedom found,Shall to thy happy coast repair;Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd,And manly hearts to guard the fair:—Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!Britons never shall be slaves!
When Britain first at Heaven's commandArose from out the azure main,This was the charter of her land,And guardian angels sang the strain:
Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!Britons never shall be slaves!
The nations not so blest as theeMust in their turn to tyrants fall,Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free—The dread and envy of them all!
Still more majestic shalt thou rise,More dreadful from each foreign stroke;As the last blast which tears the skiesServes but to root thy native oak.
Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;All their attempts to bend thee downWill but arouse thy generous flame,And work their woe and thy renown.
To thee belongs the rural reign;Thy cities shall with commerce shine;All thine shall be the subject main,And every shore it circles thine
The Muses, still with Freedom found,Shall to thy happy coast repair;Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd,And manly hearts to guard the fair:—
Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!Britons never shall be slaves!
O waly, waly up the bank,And waly, waly down the brae,And waly, waly yon burn-side,Where I and my love wont to gae.I lean'd my back unto an aik,And thought it was a trusty tree,But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,Sae my true love did lightly me.O waly, waly, but love is bonny,A little time while it is new,But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld,And fades away like morning dew.Oh! wherefore should I busk my head?Or wherefore should I kame my hair?For my true love has me forsook,And says he'll never love me mair.Now Arthur Seat shall be my bed,The sheets shall ne'er be fil'd by me,Saint Anton's well shall be my drink,Since my true love's forsaken me.Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,And shake the green leaves off the tree?Oh, gentle death! when wilt thou come?For of my life I am weary.'Tis not the frost that freezes fell,Nor blowing snow's inclemency;'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,But my love's heart grown cauld to me.When we came in by Glasgow town,We were a comely sight to see;My love was clad in the black velvet,And I mysel' in cramasie.But had I wist before I kiss'dThat love had been so ill to win,I'd lock'd my heart in a case of gold,And pinn'd it with a silver pin.And oh! if my young babe were born,And set upon the nurse's knee,And I mysel' were dead and gane,Wi' the green grass growin' over me!
O waly, waly up the bank,And waly, waly down the brae,And waly, waly yon burn-side,Where I and my love wont to gae.I lean'd my back unto an aik,And thought it was a trusty tree,But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,Sae my true love did lightly me.
O waly, waly, but love is bonny,A little time while it is new,But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld,And fades away like morning dew.Oh! wherefore should I busk my head?Or wherefore should I kame my hair?For my true love has me forsook,And says he'll never love me mair.
Now Arthur Seat shall be my bed,The sheets shall ne'er be fil'd by me,Saint Anton's well shall be my drink,Since my true love's forsaken me.Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,And shake the green leaves off the tree?Oh, gentle death! when wilt thou come?For of my life I am weary.
'Tis not the frost that freezes fell,Nor blowing snow's inclemency;'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,But my love's heart grown cauld to me.When we came in by Glasgow town,We were a comely sight to see;My love was clad in the black velvet,And I mysel' in cramasie.
But had I wist before I kiss'dThat love had been so ill to win,I'd lock'd my heart in a case of gold,And pinn'd it with a silver pin.And oh! if my young babe were born,And set upon the nurse's knee,And I mysel' were dead and gane,Wi' the green grass growin' over me!
Of all the girls that are so smart,There's none like pretty Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And lives in our alley.There's ne'er a lady in the landIs half so sweet as Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And lives in our alley.Her father he makes cabbage nets,And through the streets doth cry them;Her mother she sells laces longTo such as please to buy them:But sure such folk can have no partIn such a girl as Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And lives in our alley.When she is by, I leave my work,I love her so sincerely;My master comes, like any Turk,And bangs me most severely:But let him bang, long as he will,I'll bear it all for Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And lives in our alley.Of all the days are in the week,I dearly love but one day,And that's the day that comes betwixtA Saturday and Monday;For then I'm dress'd, in all my best,To walk abroad with Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And lives in our alley.My master carries me to church,And often I am blamèd,Because I leave him in the lurch,Soon as the text is namèd:I leave the church in sermon time,And slink away to Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And lives in our alley.When Christmas comes about again,O then I shall have money;I'll hoard it up and, box and all,I'll give unto my honey:I would it were ten thousand pounds,I'd give it all to Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And lives in our alley.My master and the neighbours all,Make game of me and Sally,And but for she I'd better beA slave, and row a galley:But when my seven long years are out,O then I'll marry Sally,And then how happily we'll live—But not in our alley.
Of all the girls that are so smart,There's none like pretty Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And lives in our alley.There's ne'er a lady in the landIs half so sweet as Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And lives in our alley.
Her father he makes cabbage nets,And through the streets doth cry them;Her mother she sells laces longTo such as please to buy them:But sure such folk can have no partIn such a girl as Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And lives in our alley.
When she is by, I leave my work,I love her so sincerely;My master comes, like any Turk,And bangs me most severely:But let him bang, long as he will,I'll bear it all for Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And lives in our alley.
Of all the days are in the week,I dearly love but one day,And that's the day that comes betwixtA Saturday and Monday;For then I'm dress'd, in all my best,To walk abroad with Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And lives in our alley.
My master carries me to church,And often I am blamèd,Because I leave him in the lurch,Soon as the text is namèd:I leave the church in sermon time,And slink away to Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And lives in our alley.
When Christmas comes about again,O then I shall have money;I'll hoard it up and, box and all,I'll give unto my honey:I would it were ten thousand pounds,I'd give it all to Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And lives in our alley.
My master and the neighbours all,Make game of me and Sally,And but for she I'd better beA slave, and row a galley:But when my seven long years are out,O then I'll marry Sally,And then how happily we'll live—But not in our alley.
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride?Where gat ye that winsome marrow?I gat her where I daurna weel be seen,Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride,Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow;Nor let thy heart lament to leivePu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride?Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow?And why daur ye nae mair weel be seenPu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow?Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep,Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow,And lang maun I nae mair weel be seenPu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.For she has tint her luver, luver dear,Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow;And I hae slain the comliest swainThat eir pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow.Why rins thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, reid?Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow?And why yon melancholious weidsHung on the bonny birks of Yarrow?What's yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude?What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow!O 'tis he the comely swain I slewUpon the duleful Braes of Yarrow.Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in tears,His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow;And wrap his limbs in mourning weids,And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad,Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow;And weep around in waeful wiseHis hapless fate on the Braes of Yarrow!Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield,My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,The fatal spear that pierc'd his breast,His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow.Did I not warn thee, not to, not to luve?And warn from fight? but to my sorrowToo rashly bauld a stronger armThou mett'st, and fell on the Braes of Yarrow.Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass,Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan;Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowin'!Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,As green its grass, its gowan as yellow,As sweet smells on its braes the birk,The apple frae its rocks as mellow.Fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy luve,In flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter;Tho' he was fair, and weel beluv'd againThan me he never luv'd thee better.Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride,Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,Busk ye, and luve me on the banks of Tweed,And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.How can I busk a bonny bonny bride?How can I busk a winsome marrow?How luve him on the banks of Tweed,That slew my luve on the Braes of Yarrow?O Yarrow fields, may never never rain,Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover,For there was basely slain my luve,My luve, as he had not been a lover.The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,His purple vest—'twas my awn sewing:Ah! wretched me! I little, little kenn'dHe was in these to meet his ruin.The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed,Unheedful of my dule and sorrow:But ere the toofall of the nightHe lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.Much I rejoyc'd that waeful waeful day;I sang, my voice the woods returning:But lang ere night the spear was flown,That slew my luve, and left me mourning.What can my barbarous barbarous father do,But with his cruel rage pursue me?My luver's blood is on thy spear—How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me?My happy sisters may be, may be proudWith cruel and ungentle scoffin',May bid me seek on Yarrow BraesMy luver nailed in his coffin.My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid,And strive with threatning words to muve me:My luver's blood is on thy spear—How canst thou ever bid me luve thee?Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve,With bridal sheets my body cover,Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door!Let in the expected husband-luver.But who the expected husband husband is?His hands, methinks, are bath'd in slaughter.Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yonComes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after?Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down,O lay his cold head on my pillow!Take aff, take aff these bridal weids,And crown my careful head with willow.Pale tho' thou art, yet best, yet best beluv'd,O could my warmth to life restore thee!Ye'd lye all night between my breists—No youth lay ever there before thee!Pale, pale indeed, O luvely luvely youth,Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter,And lye all night between my breists,No youth shall ever lye there after.A.Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride!Return and dry thy useless sorrow!Thy luver heeds none of thy sighs,He lyes a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.
Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride?Where gat ye that winsome marrow?I gat her where I daurna weel be seen,Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride,Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow;Nor let thy heart lament to leivePu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride?Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow?And why daur ye nae mair weel be seenPu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow?
Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep,Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow,And lang maun I nae mair weel be seenPu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
For she has tint her luver, luver dear,Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow;And I hae slain the comliest swainThat eir pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
Why rins thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, reid?Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow?And why yon melancholious weidsHung on the bonny birks of Yarrow?
What's yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude?What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow!O 'tis he the comely swain I slewUpon the duleful Braes of Yarrow.
Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in tears,His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow;And wrap his limbs in mourning weids,And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.
Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad,Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow;And weep around in waeful wiseHis hapless fate on the Braes of Yarrow!
Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield,My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,The fatal spear that pierc'd his breast,His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow.
Did I not warn thee, not to, not to luve?And warn from fight? but to my sorrowToo rashly bauld a stronger armThou mett'st, and fell on the Braes of Yarrow.
Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass,Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan;Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowin'!
Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,As green its grass, its gowan as yellow,As sweet smells on its braes the birk,The apple frae its rocks as mellow.
Fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy luve,In flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter;Tho' he was fair, and weel beluv'd againThan me he never luv'd thee better.
Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride,Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,Busk ye, and luve me on the banks of Tweed,And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.
How can I busk a bonny bonny bride?How can I busk a winsome marrow?How luve him on the banks of Tweed,That slew my luve on the Braes of Yarrow?
O Yarrow fields, may never never rain,Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover,For there was basely slain my luve,My luve, as he had not been a lover.
The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,His purple vest—'twas my awn sewing:Ah! wretched me! I little, little kenn'dHe was in these to meet his ruin.
The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed,Unheedful of my dule and sorrow:But ere the toofall of the nightHe lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.
Much I rejoyc'd that waeful waeful day;I sang, my voice the woods returning:But lang ere night the spear was flown,That slew my luve, and left me mourning.
What can my barbarous barbarous father do,But with his cruel rage pursue me?My luver's blood is on thy spear—How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me?
My happy sisters may be, may be proudWith cruel and ungentle scoffin',May bid me seek on Yarrow BraesMy luver nailed in his coffin.
My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid,And strive with threatning words to muve me:My luver's blood is on thy spear—How canst thou ever bid me luve thee?
Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve,With bridal sheets my body cover,Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door!Let in the expected husband-luver.
But who the expected husband husband is?His hands, methinks, are bath'd in slaughter.Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yonComes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after?
Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down,O lay his cold head on my pillow!Take aff, take aff these bridal weids,And crown my careful head with willow.
Pale tho' thou art, yet best, yet best beluv'd,O could my warmth to life restore thee!Ye'd lye all night between my breists—No youth lay ever there before thee!
Pale, pale indeed, O luvely luvely youth,Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter,And lye all night between my breists,No youth shall ever lye there after.
A.Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride!Return and dry thy useless sorrow!Thy luver heeds none of thy sighs,He lyes a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.
My banks they are furnished with bees,Whose murmur invites one to sleep;My grottoes are shaded with trees,And my hills are white over with sheep.I seldom have met with a loss,Such health do my fountains bestow;My fountains all bordered with moss,Where the harebells and violets blow.Not a pine in the grove is there seen,But with tendrils of woodbine is bound;Not a beech's more beautiful green,But a sweet-briar entwines it around.Not my fields in the prime of the year,More charms than my cattle unfold;Not a brook that is limpid and clear,But it glitters with fishes of gold.I have found out a gift for my fair,I have found where the wood-pigeons breed;But let me such plunder forbear,She will say 'twas a barbarous deed;For he ne'er could be true, she averred,Who would rob a poor bird of its young;And I loved her the more when I heardSuch tenderness fall from her tongue.
My banks they are furnished with bees,Whose murmur invites one to sleep;My grottoes are shaded with trees,And my hills are white over with sheep.I seldom have met with a loss,Such health do my fountains bestow;My fountains all bordered with moss,Where the harebells and violets blow.
Not a pine in the grove is there seen,But with tendrils of woodbine is bound;Not a beech's more beautiful green,But a sweet-briar entwines it around.Not my fields in the prime of the year,More charms than my cattle unfold;Not a brook that is limpid and clear,But it glitters with fishes of gold.
I have found out a gift for my fair,I have found where the wood-pigeons breed;But let me such plunder forbear,She will say 'twas a barbarous deed;For he ne'er could be true, she averred,Who would rob a poor bird of its young;And I loved her the more when I heardSuch tenderness fall from her tongue.
John Gilpin was a citizenOf credit and renown,A train-band captain eke was heOf famous London town.John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear:'Though wedded we have beenThese twice ten tedious years, yet weNo holiday have seen.'To-morrow is our wedding-day,And we will then repairUnto the Bell at EdmontonAll in a chaise and pair.'My sister, and my sister's child,Myself and children three,Will fill the chaise; so you must rideOn horseback after we.'He soon replied: 'I do admireOf womankind but one,And you are she, my dearest dear;Therefore, it shall be done.'I am a linen-draper bold,As all the world doth know,And my good friend the calenderWill lend his horse to go.'Quoth Mrs. Gilpin: 'That's well said;And for that wine is dear,We will be furnished with our own,Which is both bright and clear.'John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;O'erjoyed was he to findThat, though on pleasure she was bent,She had a frugal mind.The morning came, the chaise was brought,But yet was not allowedTo drive up to the door, lest allShould say that she was proud.So three doors off the chaise was stayed,Where they did all get in;Six precious souls, and all agogTo dash through thick and thin.Smack went the whip, round went the wheels,Were never folk so glad;The stones did rattle underneath,As if Cheapside were mad.John Gilpin at his horse's sideSeized fast the flowing mane,And up he got, in haste to ride,But soon came down again;For saddle-tree scarce reached had he,His journey to begin,When, turning round his head, he sawThree customers come in.So down he came; for loss of time,Although it grieved him sore,Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,Would trouble him much more.'Twas long before the customersWere suited to their mind,When Betty screaming came down stairs:'The wine is left behind!''Good lack!' quoth he—'yet bring it me,My leathern belt likewise,In which I bear my trusty swordWhen I do exercise.'Now Mrs. Gilpin—careful soul!—Had two stone-bottles found,To hold the liquor that she loved,And keep it safe and sound.Each bottle had a curling ear,Through which the belt he drew,And hung a bottle on each side,To make his balance true.Then over all, that he might beEquipped from top to toe,His long red cloak, well brushed and neat,He manfully did throw.Now see him mounted once againUpon his nimble steed,Full slowly pacing o'er the stonesWith caution and good heed.But finding soon a smoother roadBeneath his well-shod feet,The snorting beast began to trot,Which galled him in his seat.So, 'Fair and softly,' John he cried,But John he cried in vain;That trot became a gallop soon,In spite of curb and rein.So stooping down, as needs he mustWho cannot sit upright,He grasped the mane with both his hands,And eke with all his might.His horse, which never in that sortHad handled been before,What thing upon his back had gotDid wonder more and more.Away went Gilpin, neck or nought;Away went hat and wig;He little dreamt when he set outOf running such a rig.The wind did blow, the cloak did fly,Like streamer long and gay,Till, loop and button failing both,At last it flew away.Then might all people well discernThe bottles he had slung;A bottle swinging at each side,As hath been said or sung.The dogs did bark, the children screamed,Up flew the windows all;And every soul cried out: 'Well done!'As loud as he could bawl.Away went Gilpin—who but he?His fame soon spread around;He carries weight! he rides a race!'Tis for a thousand pound!And still, as fast as he drew near,'Twas wonderful to viewHow in a trice the turnpike-menTheir gates wide open threw.And now, as he went bowing downHis reeking head full low,The bottles twain behind his backWere shattered at a blow.Down ran the wine into the road,Most piteous to be seen,Which made his horse's flanks to smokeAs they had basted been.But still he seemed to carry weight,With leathern girdle braced;For all might see the bottle necksStill dangling at his waist.Thus all through merry IslingtonThese gambols he did play,Until he came unto the WashOf Edmonton so gay;And there he threw the wash aboutOn both sides of the way,Just like unto a trundling mop,Or a wild goose at play.At Edmonton his loving wifeFrom the balcony spiedHer tender husband, wondering muchTo see how he did ride.'Stop, stop, John Gilpin!—Here's the house'—They all aloud did cry;'The dinner waits, and we are tired!'Said Gilpin: 'So am I!'But yet his horse was not a whitInclined to tarry there;For why? his owner had a houseFull ten miles off, at Ware.So like an arrow swift he flew,Shot by an archer strong;So did he fly—which brings me toThe middle of my song.Away went Gilpin out of breath,And sore against his will,Till at his friend the calender'sHis horse at last stood still.The calender, amazed to seeHis neighbour in such trim,Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,And thus accosted him:'What news? what news? your tidings tell—Tell me you must and shall—Say why bareheaded you are come,Or why you come at all?'Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,And loved a timely joke;And thus unto the calenderIn merry guise he spoke:'I came because your horse would come;And, if I well forebode,My hat and wig will soon be here—They are upon the road.'The calender, right glad to findHis friend in merry pin,Returned him not a single word,But to the house went in;Whence straight he came with hat and wig;A wig that flowed behind,A hat not much the worse for wear,Each comely in its kind.He held them up, and in his turnThus showed his ready wit:'My head is twice as big as yours,They therefore needs must fit.'But let me scrape the dirt awayThat hangs upon your face:And stop and eat, for well you mayBe in a hungry case.'Said John: 'It is my wedding-day,And all the world would stareIf wife should dine at Edmonton,And I should dine at Ware.'So turning to his horse, he said:'I am in haste to dine;'Twas for your pleasure you came here,You shall go back for mine.'Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast!For which he paid full dear;For, while he spake, a braying assDid sing most loud and clear;Whereat his horse did snort, as heHad heard a lion roar,And galloped off with all his might,As he had done before.Away went Gilpin, and awayWent Gilpin's hat and wig;He lost them sooner than at first;For why?—they were too big.Now Mrs. Gilpin, when she sawHer husband posting downInto the country far away,She pulled out half-a-crown;And thus unto the youth she saidThat drove them to the Bell:'This shall be yours when you bring backMy husband safe and well.'The youth did ride, and soon did meetJohn coming back amain;Whom in a trice he tried to stop,By catching at his rein;But not performing what he meant,And gladly would have done,The frighted steed he frighted more,And made him faster run.Away went Gilpin, and awayWent post-boy at his heels,The post-boy's horse right glad to missThe lumbering of the wheels.Six gentlemen upon the roadThus seeing Gilpin fly,With post-boy scampering in the rear,They raised the hue and cry:'Stop thief! stop thief!'—a highwayman,Not one of them was mute;And all and each that passed that wayDid join in the pursuit.And now the turnpike gates againFlew open in short space;The tollmen thinking as beforeThat Gilpin rode a race.And so he did, and won it too,For he got first to town;Nor stopped till where he had got upHe did again get down.Now let us sing, long live the king,And Gilpin, long live he;And, when he next doth ride abroad,May I be there to see!
John Gilpin was a citizenOf credit and renown,A train-band captain eke was heOf famous London town.
John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear:'Though wedded we have beenThese twice ten tedious years, yet weNo holiday have seen.
'To-morrow is our wedding-day,And we will then repairUnto the Bell at EdmontonAll in a chaise and pair.
'My sister, and my sister's child,Myself and children three,Will fill the chaise; so you must rideOn horseback after we.'
He soon replied: 'I do admireOf womankind but one,And you are she, my dearest dear;Therefore, it shall be done.
'I am a linen-draper bold,As all the world doth know,And my good friend the calenderWill lend his horse to go.'
Quoth Mrs. Gilpin: 'That's well said;And for that wine is dear,We will be furnished with our own,Which is both bright and clear.'
John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;O'erjoyed was he to findThat, though on pleasure she was bent,She had a frugal mind.
The morning came, the chaise was brought,But yet was not allowedTo drive up to the door, lest allShould say that she was proud.
So three doors off the chaise was stayed,Where they did all get in;Six precious souls, and all agogTo dash through thick and thin.
Smack went the whip, round went the wheels,Were never folk so glad;The stones did rattle underneath,As if Cheapside were mad.
John Gilpin at his horse's sideSeized fast the flowing mane,And up he got, in haste to ride,But soon came down again;
For saddle-tree scarce reached had he,His journey to begin,When, turning round his head, he sawThree customers come in.
So down he came; for loss of time,Although it grieved him sore,Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,Would trouble him much more.
'Twas long before the customersWere suited to their mind,When Betty screaming came down stairs:'The wine is left behind!'
'Good lack!' quoth he—'yet bring it me,My leathern belt likewise,In which I bear my trusty swordWhen I do exercise.'
Now Mrs. Gilpin—careful soul!—Had two stone-bottles found,To hold the liquor that she loved,And keep it safe and sound.
Each bottle had a curling ear,Through which the belt he drew,And hung a bottle on each side,To make his balance true.
Then over all, that he might beEquipped from top to toe,His long red cloak, well brushed and neat,He manfully did throw.
Now see him mounted once againUpon his nimble steed,Full slowly pacing o'er the stonesWith caution and good heed.
But finding soon a smoother roadBeneath his well-shod feet,The snorting beast began to trot,Which galled him in his seat.
So, 'Fair and softly,' John he cried,But John he cried in vain;That trot became a gallop soon,In spite of curb and rein.
So stooping down, as needs he mustWho cannot sit upright,He grasped the mane with both his hands,And eke with all his might.
His horse, which never in that sortHad handled been before,What thing upon his back had gotDid wonder more and more.
Away went Gilpin, neck or nought;Away went hat and wig;He little dreamt when he set outOf running such a rig.
The wind did blow, the cloak did fly,Like streamer long and gay,Till, loop and button failing both,At last it flew away.
Then might all people well discernThe bottles he had slung;A bottle swinging at each side,As hath been said or sung.
The dogs did bark, the children screamed,Up flew the windows all;And every soul cried out: 'Well done!'As loud as he could bawl.
Away went Gilpin—who but he?His fame soon spread around;He carries weight! he rides a race!'Tis for a thousand pound!
And still, as fast as he drew near,'Twas wonderful to viewHow in a trice the turnpike-menTheir gates wide open threw.
And now, as he went bowing downHis reeking head full low,The bottles twain behind his backWere shattered at a blow.
Down ran the wine into the road,Most piteous to be seen,Which made his horse's flanks to smokeAs they had basted been.
But still he seemed to carry weight,With leathern girdle braced;For all might see the bottle necksStill dangling at his waist.
Thus all through merry IslingtonThese gambols he did play,Until he came unto the WashOf Edmonton so gay;
And there he threw the wash aboutOn both sides of the way,Just like unto a trundling mop,Or a wild goose at play.
At Edmonton his loving wifeFrom the balcony spiedHer tender husband, wondering muchTo see how he did ride.
'Stop, stop, John Gilpin!—Here's the house'—They all aloud did cry;'The dinner waits, and we are tired!'Said Gilpin: 'So am I!'
But yet his horse was not a whitInclined to tarry there;For why? his owner had a houseFull ten miles off, at Ware.
So like an arrow swift he flew,Shot by an archer strong;So did he fly—which brings me toThe middle of my song.
Away went Gilpin out of breath,And sore against his will,Till at his friend the calender'sHis horse at last stood still.
The calender, amazed to seeHis neighbour in such trim,Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,And thus accosted him:
'What news? what news? your tidings tell—Tell me you must and shall—Say why bareheaded you are come,Or why you come at all?'
Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,And loved a timely joke;And thus unto the calenderIn merry guise he spoke:
'I came because your horse would come;And, if I well forebode,My hat and wig will soon be here—They are upon the road.'
The calender, right glad to findHis friend in merry pin,Returned him not a single word,But to the house went in;
Whence straight he came with hat and wig;A wig that flowed behind,A hat not much the worse for wear,Each comely in its kind.
He held them up, and in his turnThus showed his ready wit:'My head is twice as big as yours,They therefore needs must fit.
'But let me scrape the dirt awayThat hangs upon your face:And stop and eat, for well you mayBe in a hungry case.'
Said John: 'It is my wedding-day,And all the world would stareIf wife should dine at Edmonton,And I should dine at Ware.'
So turning to his horse, he said:'I am in haste to dine;'Twas for your pleasure you came here,You shall go back for mine.'
Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast!For which he paid full dear;For, while he spake, a braying assDid sing most loud and clear;
Whereat his horse did snort, as heHad heard a lion roar,And galloped off with all his might,As he had done before.
Away went Gilpin, and awayWent Gilpin's hat and wig;He lost them sooner than at first;For why?—they were too big.
Now Mrs. Gilpin, when she sawHer husband posting downInto the country far away,She pulled out half-a-crown;
And thus unto the youth she saidThat drove them to the Bell:'This shall be yours when you bring backMy husband safe and well.'
The youth did ride, and soon did meetJohn coming back amain;Whom in a trice he tried to stop,By catching at his rein;
But not performing what he meant,And gladly would have done,The frighted steed he frighted more,And made him faster run.
Away went Gilpin, and awayWent post-boy at his heels,The post-boy's horse right glad to missThe lumbering of the wheels.
Six gentlemen upon the roadThus seeing Gilpin fly,With post-boy scampering in the rear,They raised the hue and cry:
'Stop thief! stop thief!'—a highwayman,Not one of them was mute;And all and each that passed that wayDid join in the pursuit.
And now the turnpike gates againFlew open in short space;The tollmen thinking as beforeThat Gilpin rode a race.
And so he did, and won it too,For he got first to town;Nor stopped till where he had got upHe did again get down.
Now let us sing, long live the king,And Gilpin, long live he;And, when he next doth ride abroad,May I be there to see!